Rubens. You know, my friend, we have no jealousies here—nor schools.
Rafael. Our noble Michael has forgiven my youthful presumption.
M. Angelo. Not a word of that—I was to blame. Basta! You acted nobly, gracefully, kindly as ever.
Titian. The outline of Rome embraces the colour of Venice; and Titian here, after life, recognizes the might of Michael Angelo, and the saintliness of Rafael.
Rubens. Strange how blind we were on earth!
“A PRETTY PROSPECT!”
Native (to our Landscape Painter, who has come down to sketch). Why, sir, in this ’ere valley that you’re a goin’ to, you may see—ah—three splendid viaducts all at once, and one o’ the largest cloth factories in the West of England!
A. Durer. But the news from England?
M. Angelo. I love your commercial races and their merchant princes. Florence should have been my home. Has England such patrons of art as Soderini—